---
The morning hits soft.
Warm.
Like something holy is wrapping around my skin.
There's a hand on my forehead. Gentle. Almost weightless. My lashes flutter open slow, like they don't wanna wake up yet—and then
I see him.
Him.
Zayan.
Not the asshole voice behind the curtain. Not the arrogant phantom with a resting tone sharper than knives.
No.
This Zayan is… lying on his side, head sunk into his pillow, that ridiculously perfect arm stretched over, his fingers tracing across my damn face like I'm something breakable. Like I'm not loud and rude and scarred up inside. His other hand tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. Slowly. Carefully. Like he fucking cares.
My breath catches in my chest. My entire body goes stiff like I'm afraid if I blink, he'll vanish. His eyes are half-lidded, like he just woke up, sleepy and soft and molten dark. Not that usual predator stare he throws around like a weapon. No smirk. No judgment. Just him. His features are unreal in this light—sharp and golden and somehow… kind. A dangerous kind. The kind that fucks up your head and makes you forget how to speak.
I smile. God help me, I actually smile at him like a fucking idiot. And he keeps staring like I'm something worth looking at.
Then—
"Miss, wake up. It's time for your medicine."
The voice slices clean through everything. My eyes snap open. My heart is hammering. My mouth tastes like shock.
What the fuck.
The ceiling. The sterile light. The curtain—
The fucking curtain is still closed.
He's not lying there. He's not touching my face. He's not… anything.
It was a dream.
A stupid, stupid dream.
I blink at the ceiling, my heart pounding like I just ran a damn marathon. What the hell kind of messed up subconscious do I have to dream that? That man's voice gives me headaches and ulcers and homicidal thoughts, and now suddenly he's stroking my hair and looking at me like I'm peace?
Ugh.
I groan under my breath, dragging my hand across my face.
What kind of dream feels that fucking real?
My cheeks burn. I can still feel it. His touch. His eyes. That silence that wasn't awkward or tense but… warm.
Why the hell would my brain do that to me?
He's not sweet. He's not soft. He's not that guy. He's rude and smug and probably laughing right now on his bed, still curtain-blocked like the cocky mystery he is. And here I am—waking up from a hallucination where he looked like fucking poetry and touched me like I meant something.
"Ughhhh," I mutter into my pillow, embarrassed to hell and back.
The nurse comes in with that weird mobile sink-cart thing, chirpy as hell. "Let's freshen up, hmm?"
Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Just let me scrub the shame off my damn soul.
She clicks the setup around, starts pressing things, and the robotic arms move smoothly with the programmed water-cleanser and foam brushes. It smells like mint and lemons, and I don't resist. I just close my eyes and let her clean my face and mouth and neck while I try not to scream into the universe.
A dream. It was a dream. Not real. Not touchable. Just the leftover hunger of an obsession I should've killed months ago.
I should be thinking about the pain in my back, the stiffness in my legs, the machine by my side. I should be focused on recovery.
Not on how he looked without his usual sharpness. Not on how that hand felt against my cheek. Not on how badly I wanted it to be fucking real.
I swallow hard, silently cursing my own hormones and that fucking sexy, infuriating voice.
Never again. No more dreams.
Next time I sleep, I'm dreaming of punching him.
Or setting him on fire.
But the second the nurse leaves, I find myself peeking—just a little—to the left side of the curtain.
Just in case.
Because what if he is awake?
And what if he is looking?
Even if I'll never admit it again… part of me wants him to.
I don't even remember when the hell I fell asleep last night. One second I was mid-rant, throat dry, eyes wide, giving an unsolicited TED Talk about how cruel the Tavarians are—rich, untouchable, cold-blooded devils walking around like they own this fucking earth—and then, boom. Gone.
I don't remember if I even switched the damn TV off or if he believed any of the shit I said. Not that I care. That's his problem. He can either believe it or stay delusional. No sugarcoating it—those Tavarians are fucking fuckers.Period.
I lick my lips, then clear my throat.
"Ahmmm..."
No response.
Silence, like a wall of stone.
I swallow. "Ahmmm."
Still fucking nothing.
My brow twitches.
"Are you awake or dead?"
The silence tightens. There's no beep or rustle or snarky reply. Just the damn curtain standing like a smug little bitch between us.
I let out a sharp breath and then, in one swift movement, I yank it aside—
And freeze.
He's already looking at me.
Not just looking. Staring.
His eyes are half-lidded, dark as night, so damn intense that I almost flinch. His body's relaxed, propped on his side, cheek half-sunk into the pillow like he's been watching me for a while. His chain glints faintly in the light. That damn chain that rests perfectly on his collarbone like it was fucking designed to make me insane.
"When did I fall asleep last night?" I ask, blinking like I've forgotten how to exist under that stare.
He blinks slow. "You passed out."
I shift a little under the blanket, trying not to look as flustered as I feel. "Seriously?"
"Mid-sentence," he says lazily. "Right after your hate speech on the Tavarians. You were really passionate."
I narrow my eyes. "Are you on my side or theirs?"
He doesn't answer immediately. His gaze flicks from my eyes to my mouth and back.
"I'm on yours," he says finally, low and calm. "Always yours."
I blink. The air between us goes too still.
Then he adds, "I prefer intelligence over money. Passion over status. Brutal honesty over sugar-dipped lies."
The way he says it—it's not cheesy, it's not even sweet. It's just real, said in that dangerous voice of his that makes my skin prickle in heat.
"Yeah?" I ask, tilting my head. "You sure? Because most people would kiss a Tavarian's ass if they got the chance."
He shrugs. "I'd rather kiss someone who tells the Tavarians to go fuck themselves."
I blink. Hard.
My throat tightens, but I cover it with a scoff. "Lucky you, then. You met the right bitch."
His lips twitch, and for the first time this morning, he smirks. God, that smirk. Slow. Lazy. Like he knows he's winning.
And even though I don't look at him directly again, I can feel it.
I can feel him watching me.
And my skin? It's burning.
I look at him.
And fuck.
He looks like he crawled straight out of hell, dragging heaven with him just to show off. That face should be illegal. That mouth. That goddamn jawline. Even half-lying on the hospital bed with tubes running down his arms, he looks like the universe sculpted him on a particularly horny day.
I tear my gaze away before I do something stupid—like stare at his collarbones again. Like remember that dream. Like bite my lip.
Change the topic. I need to change the topic.
"Uh... how you doing now?" I ask, voice a little scratchy. "Can you sit?"
His gaze slides lazily to mine. "Can't," he says. "But yeah, I'm trying."
Why does his voice sound like warm molasses poured over sin?
I clear my throat. "So... how does it feel to ride a bike?"
He blinks once. Then answers, slow and honest, "Like having control between your legs."
I fucking choke.
Not literally. But in my head? My brain combusts.
He's so calm about it. So fucking unaware. And my mind? Should be locked up in a maximum-security prison with a priest screaming holy verses in the hallway.
I say nothing. Nothing at all. Just sit there thinking about... things. Unholy things.
I growl a little—internally. A tiny, frustrated demon in me claws at the walls of my chest and hisses, "Repent, bitch."
"Oh," I mumble, eyes definitely not on his lips. "Did you ever regret it?"
"What?" he asks.
"Speeding. That day. The accident."
His eyes lock on mine. Calm. Cold. A little amused. "No."
I blink. "No?"
"It wasn't my fault," he says. "You didn't look at the road."
I give him an awkward smile that tastes like I swallowed a cactus. "Right. That."
My fingers itch to punch something, preferably my own stupid mouth.
"Where were you going that day?" I ask.
"To see someone."
"Who?" I ask. "Family? Friend?"
"No." His eyes hold mine. "Someone I love."
My breath catches. My stomach drops. My heart? That bitch flatlines.
"Oh," I say, trying to smile but the corners of my lips betray me. "Must be a girl, huh?"
"Yeah."
The air shrinks. My own voice sounds like a distant echo. I still manage to joke, even if every part of me wants to scream. "Poor girl. How's she tolerating you?"
He doesn't answer.
I wish he would say something sarcastic. Or stupid. Or deny it. But he just... says nothing.
"How does it feel?" I ask before I can stop myself. "To be in love?"
He looks at me for a beat. "Painful."
I don't breathe.
"Feels like... you're always waiting," he says, voice low now. "But they never look back."
I don't say anything. Because my inside is burning and bleeding and breaking all at once.
Then he asks, "Why? You haven't been in love?"
I blink. "I have."
He tilts his head slightly. That Tavarian move. I hate how good it looks on him. "Yeah?"
"But it's just a crush," I mutter.
"Crush?"
"Yeah," I say, trying to laugh but it sounds fake. "It's been a year. I saw him once. That's it. One time. On the road. And now I'm obsessed like a fucking idiot."
He says nothing.
I can't say it's him.
I can't even think about anyone else when he's looking at me like that. When the curtain is open. When the air between us feels like fire soaked in gasoline.
And I just sit there, silently burning, next to the boy who doesn't know he's the reason I'm scorched.
The sound of the door creaks through the silence.
I can't see a thing—curtains surround the entire bed like some private royal tent—and the room stays dim except for the light bleeding from under the curtain hem. But I hear it. Footsteps. Calm. Unhurried. Too damn controlled to be a nurse. Definitely not my doctor—he stomps like he's angry at the floor.
The front curtain near his bed slides open. A soft shuffle. Then it closes again.
Silence.
Two minutes pass.
Then the curtain opens again. Shuts again.
Footsteps retreat.
What the actual hell?
My eyes narrow at the ceiling like it'll give me an answer. "Who's that?" I call out through the curtain, my voice rough with sleep and irritation.
A beat of silence.
Then his voice—deep, disinterested, lazy. "That's none of your business."
"Oh well, okay," I mutter under my breath. "Rude ass."
I shift, annoyed, and snap the side curtain open. The fabric rustles like it's gasping. He looks up—his face turned slightly, one eyebrow raised like I've personally offended his royal peace.
That single brow is criminal. The way he looks at me? Offensive.
Bastard.
I frown. Hard. Then lay back again with a dramatic sigh and turn to my side. My fingers brush against something cold and plastic—oh, the remote. Before I can even think, the damn TV clicks on above me on the wall.
The volume's low, but clear.
A news anchor's voice floats into the room. Polished, chirpy, like her lips are permanently glossed.
"—and today, the Tavarian Corporation's new project, the SkyDawn Initiative, has its official inauguration ceremony in the capital. Citizens gather as the entire country awaits this next phase of national innovation—"
Ugh.
I squint up at the TV. Same channel as yesterday. I glance his way and smirk.
"We literally talked about them yesterday, and now here we are—again." I tilt my head toward the screen. "They're everywhere, right?"
He says nothing.
No surprise.
But his eyes flick up toward the screen.
No reaction. No interest. His face looks carved from marble. Cold. Indifferent.
"Fucking fuckers," I mutter, ready to switch it off.
"Don't." His voice is low. Unbothered. "I'm watching."
My hand freezes midair. I blink at him. Huh. Okay then. That's new.
"You watch business news?" I say, half sarcastic, half surprised.
He shrugs slightly. Doesn't even turn to look at me. "Sometimes."
I nod slowly, settling back, eyes half on the screen, half on him.
Then I mutter, mostly to myself, "Why the fuck is the Tavarian heir hidden anyway? Like, are they growing him in a lab or something?"
He glances at me sideways.
"You should ask the chairman."
"Bro, nah," I scoff instantly. "Even though I hate that family, I… I lowkey respect that old man, okay? He's terrifying. Hot. I swear, if I ever saw Kamal Rashid Tavarian in person, I'd faint. That man's aura could snap a bitch in half."
He doesn't laugh. Doesn't react.
Just watches me with this unreadable calm.
"I'm serious," I go on, because why the hell not? "His name alone makes politicians piss themselves. I think he once threatened the finance minister without even speaking. Just a look. You know how powerful you gotta be for your silence to terrify a room full of world leaders?"
Still nothing from him.
I sigh again, throwing my arm over my forehead dramatically. "Maybe the heir is a total psychopath. Like full-blown, red-flag, serial killer vibes."
"Maybe," he says blandly.
I pause. My eyes slide to him.
He's not looking at me.
Not anymore.
His eyes are on the TV again, lashes dark and thick, casting a sharp shadow under his eyes. There's something about the shape of his jaw, the cut of his mouth, the lean, dangerous peace in his posture.
Too damn pretty.
I forget to look away. Just for a second.
And then his eyes—those deep, dark brown eyes—snap to me. Find mine like they knew where I was staring this whole time.
Shit.
Caught.
I jerk my head away fast and cough into my palm. "Oww. It's… hot."
He tilts his head slightly toward the ceiling, then at me. "You're hot?"
I blink. Swallow. "I—I mean. No. Like. The room."
His face doesn't change.
Still looking.
Still goddamn pretty.
The air conditioner hums softly above us. The news anchor keeps rambling. Something about board members and innovation and political guests. I don't hear any of it.
He's still looking.
And I feel like I'm the one being televised.
Then he says, "You're hot in this room?", his voice is lazy, slow, like it's been dipped in molten fucking indifference, and it makes me feel like I said something stupid.
I blink. "Yeah," I mutter, dramatic as hell. "I have a special body."
He doesn't laugh. Doesn't smirk. Doesn't even fucking blink at that. His eyes stay on the TV like I'm background noise.
Rude.
I turn my head back toward the screen too, pretending like I'm deeply invested in whatever the anchor is saying. Just as I do, her sharp voice cuts through the room, perfectly timed:
"The Nazrani, Alzirah, and Idrakhan family members were also spotted at the event—"
I straighten a little too fast. My arm tugs at the blanket by mistake, but I ignore it. "Wait—wait. . Did she just say Nazrani?"
He hums low. Still fucking emotionless. "She did."
I shift slightly on the bed, still facing the TV. "Okay, then show me which one is the prince. I wanna see the prince."
He turns his head just a little, that annoying, slow motion of his like I'm a puzzle piece that doesn't fit. "Prince?"
I shoot him a look. "Yes. Our crown prince. The Nazrani heir? The future King? That one? You know… the one half the damn country dreams about marrying?"
He's quiet for a beat, his eyes flicking to mine briefly before going back to the screen. "You haven't seen him?"
"Would I ask if I had?" I snap, then roll my eyes and glance back at the screen.
He says flatly, "He's not in there."
I frown. "Then what the hell am I watching this for?"
"You wanted to see the prince."
"You could've told me earlier that he wasn't in the video."
"I thought you'd use your brain."
"Excuse me—my brain works just fine when I'm not drugged up on hospital meds, thank you."
I glance back at him, but he's still watching the damn news like it's a fucking thriller.
I sigh. "Anyway. I bet he's hot. He must be, right? I mean, the king—Rayhaan Zahir Nazrani—is chef's kiss. That man has a walking-god complex, and it suits him."
He nods slowly, like he's used to hearing this. "He is."
That makes me stare at him. "Wait—you've seen him?"
He doesn't answer that. Just lets the silence hang between us like a private joke I'm not allowed to get.
After a moment, he says, "Now you can switch it off."
I grab the remote again. "So what'd you learn from all that?" I ask casually, like I don't really care. But I do. A little.
His voice is slow, and I feel him watching me now, even though I'm still looking at the TV. "If you use your brain—somehow—you can catch it."
I scoff. "That's literally what they say in those cult conspiracy documentaries."
"Then maybe you're watching the wrong channel."
I look at him now, properly. The sharp line of his jaw looks more dangerous than elegant from this angle. The TV flickers across his face, soft blue light clinging to his cheekbone like it belongs there. His eyes are still locked on the screen, and I swear, even when he's doing nothing—especially when he's doing nothing—he looks like he's up to something.
"So cryptic," I mutter. "You a puzzle enthusiast or something?"
"No."
I arch a brow. "Are you a riddle in human form?"
"No."
"Do you just enjoy watching me struggle with basic logic?"
A pause. Then, "Yes."
I laugh. "Asshole."
He still doesn't smile.
The second the TV clicks off, the room falls into a thick silence. Not soft. Not peaceful.
Thick.
Like velvet soaked in tension and shoved down my throat.
I lie there, eyes glued to the ugly-ass ceiling like it owes me something. I try to sleep. I really, really try. But my body is a traitor, and my brain is a fucking clown.
Because the more I try to sleep, the more my stupid, desperate, obsessively love-starved eyes want to look at him.
And when I do?
He's not even looking at me.
He's not pretending to sleep, not fidgeting, not breathing dramatically for attention. He's just there—lying down, arms relaxed, his head angled slightly toward the ceiling. But he's somewhere else. Like his mind is pacing dark corridors I'll never be allowed to enter.
He looks dangerous like that.
Not dangerous like "he might stab me" dangerous—no, worse. The kind of dangerous that rips your sanity apart thread by thread. The kind that you beg to destroy you.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Why the fuck does he make silence feel like foreplay?
Why does he make breathing look like betrayal?
I turn my head slightly. The distance between us is barely an arm's length. If I stretched my hand, my fingers could graze the edge of his blanket. Just the edge.
Close. But not allowed.
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I know I should stop. I should blink and roll over and dream about something sane like normal people do. But I can't. I just keep looking at him. His mouth, the way it curves down like smiling is a disease. His lashes, thick and unfair. His jaw, sharp enough to make me want to press my tongue against it, just to see if it cuts.
Jesus fucking Christ, I've got it bad.
I always knew I had a thing for him. A one-year crush. Silent. Harmless. Some little obsession to keep me warm at night while the world fell apart around me.
But now?
It's not just his face.
It's him.
This version of him.
Cold. Silent. Dead-eyed and unbothered.
He talks like bullets—short, hard, and meant to leave a bruise.
He looks like power that forgot how to smile.
He moves like someone who doesn't care if you exist until he does.
And I like it.
I like it too much.
Like some sick dog with a praise kink and no dignity.
I turn my head back toward the ceiling, swallow the heat in my throat, and let my thoughts spin out like barbed wire.
Maybe… maybe when I'm discharged, I'll tell him.
Just… spit it out.
"Hey, I've had a crush on you for a year and I've imagined our wedding more times than I've done my taxes."
He'll reject me. Obviously.
But maybe if I finally say it out loud, this twisted obsession will loosen its claws.
Or maybe it'll hurt like hell, and I'll finally bleed it out.
He doesn't know me. Not really. A broken body in the bed next to his.
But I know him.
Not because we talked.
Because I watched.
And I fell. Hard.
But not into something sweet or soft.
No. I fell into fire and cracked bone and dark rooms and that voice that says, you'll never be enough, but fuck, wouldn't it feel good to try?
I let my eyes flick to him again—just once, like a crime.
Still not looking at me. Still tense in that still way that says he's thinking too hard or not thinking at all.
And then—
He moves.
Not his head. Not his arm. Just his hand.
It lifts slightly, drags against the bedrail, and reaches out. Smooth. Like he's done it a thousand times.
And then—click.
The curtain slides shut between us.
No warning. No glance. No "goodnight."
Just cut off.
I blink.
For a second, I just lie there, stunned. Like I got slapped by a ghost.
Then I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding, and it comes out shaky.
"Fucking hell," I whisper.
Not because I'm mad.
Not because I'm heartbroken.
But because somehow… that made it worse.
The way he just closed me out.
No drama. No noise. No explanation.
Like I didn't exist.
Like he knew I was watching.
And decided I didn't deserve to anymore.
God, I'm so fucked."
The curtain's drawn now. He's just a few feet away, yet it feels like a galaxy sits between us. I can't see him anymore, but my body still tingles with the memory of that stupid, calm look in his eyes. The way his voice coiled around my thoughts like smoke.
"I'm watching."
"You are hot?"
Ugh. His tone. His face. His fucking everything.
I stare at the damn ceiling like it's personally responsible for the mess in my head. I mean, come on. He says he's in love with someone? Yeah, he mentioned it in the goddamn morning, casually, like saying "pass the salt." Just tossed it into the air and moved on like it didn't leave a bomb ticking in my brain.
But now I'm thinking. And that's the fucking problem.
Because now I'm thinking about his future kids. Like actually thinking about what the hell his children would look like. And not just any children—his. With her. That mystery girl he said he loved. That invisible bitch with luck written in her fate and perfection probably dripping off her eyelashes.
If he—this sinfully sculpted bastard—is in love with someone, what does she even look like? A goddess? A walking wet dream wrapped in diamonds and moonlight? Her eyelashes probably cast spells, and her laugh probably brings flowers back from the dead.
And if she's kissed him…
Fuck.
I bite my lip, hard. My jaw clenches. A dull heat simmers in my stomach, lower, deeper.
Because he—the man behind that curtain, the one with the stare that could gut a girl without touching her—is fucking beautiful. Not cute. Not hot. Dangerously beautiful.
The kind of beauty you want to blame for your own stupidity. Sharp jaw. Eyes that hold secrets like treasure chests with poison locks. That voice that makes you want to rip your own thoughts out and hand them to him on a silver plate.
I shift on my side, eyes still glued to the dim reflection of the black screen now that the TV's off, but it's pointless—my brain is already painting scenes I didn't ask for.
I mean, obviously she's pretty. Not just regular pretty. The kind of pretty that makes grown men question their existence. Probably the kind who wears silk and not cotton, perfume that smells like sins and goddesses, and heels that click like the final nail in every other woman's confidence.
Because look at him.
If this man exists, then she must too. Nature doesn't bless only one side of the couple. That's just unbalanced genetics, and fate isn't that unfair.
…Wait. No. That's a damn lie. Fate is absolutely that unfair. I'm the evidence.
He's tall, obviously. Not that I've seen all of him—but the parts I have seen?
God.
His forearm. The way the vein runs like a roadmap of quiet power. That damn chain resting against his throat like it owns him. If I had a chance, I'd bite it. Just to see what he'd do.
fuck, that jawline.
It's sharp like a damn ruler. Like the gods etched it out just to make the rest of us feel basic. His lashes are long—longer than mine, and that's criminal. And don't even get me started on the way his brows sit—clean, like judgment wrapped in beauty.
And his lips. His lips.
They look like they have no right being on a man. Full, cut just right, and always tilted like he's holding back a damn secret. Like he knows shit you'll never find out unless he wants you to.
And that moment… when his eyes found mine on the TV screen…
It wasn't accidental.
It felt like he knew. That I was looking. That I was imagining.
My cheeks burn again, and not because the AC's busted.
If he loves someone, she must be devastating. Not just pretty. Unfairly, sickeningly, divinely gorgeous. And poised, and smart, and probably smells like vanilla sex and rain. And she probably doesn't trip over her own feelings like a disaster with a mouth.
They'd have children who'd break the planet. Models in the womb. Half devil, half heartbreak. I wouldn't even be mad. I'd just accept that God had favorites and moved on.
But fuck, I still think—
If he touches her the way he touches silence… slow, like he owns time itself…
Shut. The fuck. Up. Brain.
And me?
What the hell kind of kids would I even produce?
Probably stubborn little devils with too much sarcasm and zero patience. One would probably flip off the teacher on day one. The other would get suspended for biting someone. That's my gene pool. That's what I'm capable of.
And now I can't stop imagining him in a damn white shirt, sleeves rolled up, carrying a baby—no, a toddler—on his shoulders. That wide, lazy grin on his face. Those fucking forearms flexed. The kid giggling, arms stretched to the sky like they're on top of the world because Daddy is literally perfect.
God. Kill me now.
And she would be in the corner. Smiling softly. Hand resting on her belly because she's pregnant again, because why wouldn't they have more? The world deserves more of that DNA.
Meanwhile, I'm just… here. In a hospital bed. Watching this man breathe and exist and ruin every future fantasy I've ever had.
Because it's official now.
I'm absolutely doomed.
Hopeless. Down bad. Fully corrupted.
The worst part? It's not even his fault. He's just lying there. Quiet. Calm. Gorgeous without trying. And the only thing he said that triggered this entire downward spiral was:
"You're hot?"
Just that.
And boom—I'm planning his fucking family tree.
I roll my head to the side, glaring at the curtain again. He's there. Breathing. Thinking. Not talking. Watching the news maybe, or just living rent-free in my goddamn bloodstream. I feel him like gravity.
The heat pools again. Not gentle, but dangerous. Like I want to claw my skin off just to stop thinking about his hands. His mouth. His damn voice.
Why the fuck does he talk like that? Slow, careful, like everything he says has a thousand blades under it. And when he's quiet—it's worse. It's like he's letting you dig your own grave and watching from the shadows.
I exhale hard through my nose, fist curling around the blanket like that might somehow snap me out of this mess. My thighs shift uncomfortably under the covers because my body is too aware now. Too warm. Too sensitive to every damn detail.
And then—fucking hell—I remember his chain again.
That stupid, stupid chain.
It's peeking out of the edge of his collar, the locket pressed against his skin like it belongs there. That weird, tilted crest thing—it's not even symmetrical. Why is it sexy? Why does it hang right at the dip of his collarbone like it knows it's driving me mad?
Why does it make me want to lick it?
I blink hard. Get a grip, you disaster.
But still, there's this heat rising up my neck, flooding under my skin like molten regret. My gaze trails from that chain to his throat, to the little pulse in his neck that flutters so calmly, so fucking attractively, and I wonder—has anyone ever kissed him there?
Does he shiver?
Does he groan?
Would he fist the sheets and breathe out a low, "Don't stop"?
I slap my brain.
Mentally. Metaphorically. But still.
I hate me.
Because this is supposed to be recovery. I'm in a hospital bed. He's a stranger. And I'm over here fantasizing about licking his collarbone and raising his babies.
Kill .me. now.
________________
I don't open the curtain. Not once. Not even a goddamn peek.
All morning, all fucking afternoon—I lie there like a corpse on strike. Not because I'm mad or anything. No. I just know the moment I open that damn curtain and see him again, my brain's going to spiral into some unholy territory. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to survive another full-blown conversation with that face and that voice and that lazy way he blinks like he owns the entire hospital and oxygen too?
Nope. Can't do it. I'd end up staring at his hands again or worse—his mouth—and think all sorts of criminal thoughts. So I stay still. Silent. Holy. Wrapped in my blanket like a nun who regrets nothing but also everything.
And the worst part? That fucker doesn't say a single word either. Not a cough. Not a sarcastic jab. Not even one of his emotionally constipated scoffs. Just pure, menacing silence. He's playing this game with me now. Torturing me with absence. Bastard.
It's almost past noon when I hear the door click open.
I freeze. Can't see anything—the front curtain blocks my view. But I hear footsteps. Not one pair. Multiple.
And they're all walking like it's a fucking movie shoot.
Slow. Heavy. Powerful. Like lions just casually strolling into a temple made of meat.
Why the fuck does everyone who walks into this room move in slow-mo?
What are they? Gods? Models? Mafia bosses doing a promo?
Then—
"How you doing?"
Shit. I know that voice.
It's him. That mole guy. The one with the honey-slick voice and soft sarcasm. Eshan.
Yeah. I remember that fucker.
He caught me full-on staring at him last time like I was trying to mentally tattoo his bone structure onto my soul.
Then comes Zayan's voice—
"I'm trying to sit without help."
Oh fuck me.
His voice is hoarse. Lazy. Just slightly strained like he's trying not to sound weak but ends up sounding hot.
Then another voice—deeper, cockier—
"Heal fast, man. We're bored."
Bored??
What are they bored of?! Running an underground kingdom? Looking that unfairly attractive? Having functioning spines?
Zayan: "Fuck off."
Laughter erupts.
I slide the blanket over my head like a dramatic bitch and whisper,
"God, please don't let them open the curtain. I'm not strong enough. My ovaries aren't strong enough."
I pray. Sincerely.
I am not ready to see the three hottest men on the planet in one room while I look like I just got exorcised in my sleep.
But no.
Of course not.
Woosh.
The curtain opens like a fucking revelation.
I stay still. Eyes shut. Blanket wrapped. Pretending to sleep like I've died of attraction.
"She's sleeping," Eshan's voice says.
Zayan, like the little demon he is:
"She's not. She's acting."
Bastard.
He always knows. Always.
Then fingers—bold, warm fingers—gently peel the blanket from my face.
Like I'm some kind of shy kitten or spoiled brat princess.
And there he is. Eshan. Up close. Mole on his cheek. Eyes too soft to be fair. Looking at me like I'm some adorable little idiot.
"So why are you pretending to sleep?" he asks, amused.
"I'm not," I lie. Obviously.
My gaze darts left.
And sweet hell—
The one with mismatched eyes (amber and black) is sitting on the couch, legs spread like he owns air, and smirking like he knows every secret I've ever had. Razmir.
And the dimples guy—yeah, that fucker—he's leaning against the wall like some Greek god on break, arms crossed, casual as sin. Rafaen.
And Zayan.
Fucking Zayan.
He's sitting on the bed, quiet, watching like he's in control of the entire damn room. Of the world. Of me.
I feel so goddamn naked.
Not physically—God no, I have layers—but spiritually. Emotionally. Hornily.
They're all so hot.
It's not fair.
It's fucking criminal.
And I'm the only girl in this fucking room full of powerful, handsome, smug-as-fuck men who act like they know me.
But I don't know them.
Not really.
And that's what makes it worse.
Because the only one I feel any kind of twisted, terrifying intimacy with is Zayan.
Just him.
He's the only one whose silence hurts.
Whose eyes follow me.
Whose voice lingers in my chest like smoke after fire.
But right now?
I can't even look at him straight.
Because I'll start imagining things—
His hands on my waist, his lips against my jaw, his voice in my ear whispering things that should send me straight to hell.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Try to compose myself.
But my body has betrayed me.
My face is hot. My breath's all weird.
I probably look like I'm having a fucking fever dream.
And I know, deep down, if Zayan even smirks at me right now—
I'm done for.
I need a priest.
A cold shower.
And a fucking life.
But I sit up slowly, acting all casual, like I haven't just been mentally undressing every man in this room for five minutes straight.
Fucking hell.
Someone pray for me.
I stay hidden in the blanket like it's some damn forcefield, like it could save me from the heat crawling up my neck or the uncomfortable storm building in my chest.
I don't even know them.
They're not even fucking around me. They're gathered near Zayan's side, tall shadows in polished chaos. But their eyes? Locked. On. Me.
"You sure she's not avoiding us?" the one with mismatched eyes—amber and dark, what the hell—says with a raised brow, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth like he's enjoying this too much.
The one with a damn beauty spot under his left eye—mole, mole, it's a mole—smiles like a fucking devil. Eshan. I remember him. Two weeks ago. I hated him in two seconds.
He slowly pulls the blanket off my face like he has every right in the goddamn world to do that. Like privacy was just a theory and I was a lab experiment.
My hand twitches. I want to slap him.
I glare up, voice hoarse and venom-laced, "You don't know what privacy is?"
Eshan just shrugs, unbothered. "You didn't seem like you were sleeping."
"I don't even know you guys," I snap, trying to bury the fact that my voice cracks, "Why the hell should I speak to you?"
The one with dimples—the dimples, holy shit—he's just staring at me like he saw a damn comet land in front of him. No smile. No smirk. Nothing playful. Just… staring. Deep. His eyes dig into mine like he's reading a story I haven't even written yet. And god, the way his lashes fan, the curve of his mouth—is he always that pretty when he's not smiling?
I shift uncomfortably, heart thudding in the worst kind of way. I'm not ready for this kind of attention. Not like this. Not when my hair's a mess and I'm wearing this oversized hospital shirt and pants and look like I've been hit by a truck twice—which, yeah, kind of was the case.
"Eshan, close the curtain," Zayan says.
His voice is low. Sharp. Uninterested.
But not angry.
Just… cold.
"Why?" Eshan says, glancing back. "This is fun, actually."
Fun. He thinks this is fun?
I want to flip him off so hard.
My middle finger twitches under the blanket, but I grip the sheets instead and keep still. I'm not giving them a goddamn show. Let them think I'm weak. Fine. I am weak. My fucking back still hurts, and I can't sit without pressing my palms down like an old woman trying to get off a floor.
Dimples guy—whoever he is—finally speaks. "How's your recovery?"
His voice is deep. Soothing. Way too calm for the chaos he carries in his face.
I keep my answer short. My throat's tight. "Can't sit without help."
That's all.
He doesn't say anything, but there's a beat of silence that feels heavier than necessary.
I sigh through my nose, force myself to look away from him, from all of them. My eyes automatically pull toward him.
Zayan.
God.
Why does he get to sit there like this is a fucking throne room and he's the most uninterested king in existence?
He hasn't even looked at me.
Not once.
He's just leaning against the pillow, one hand behind his head, the curve of his jawline as sharp as the tongue I haven't heard since this morning. His hair's slightly messy, like he ran his hand through it and left it that way on purpose. The light cuts shadows along his collarbone, dipping into the shirt he's wearing—casual, dark, stupidly attractive.
They're around him, technically. But all their eyes are on me.
Zayan's gaze is the only one that doesn't touch me.
And I hate that I'm watching him again.
I hate that my heart skips a fucking beat when he shifts, or the way the veins on his forearm pop when he moves, or how the edge of his jaw flexes when he clenches it for no goddamn reason.
I hate this entire scene.
I feel like a caged animal in front of an audience I didn't agree to perform for.
I draw the blanket up again, higher this time, only my eyes peeking out now, and mutter,
"I'm better than usual."
That's all they get.
I don't owe them anything. Not my words. Not my body. Not even a goddamn explanation for why I'm shivering under this blanket in a room that's clearly warm.
I just want them gone.
And yet… part of me wonders—why are they even here?
Why does Zayan, the guy who's been cold to me since the first time we actually spoke, suddenly have these ridiculously hot, powerful-looking friends casually gathered in his room?
And why the fuck are they looking at me like that?
I keep my blanket fortress intact.
Only my eyes peek out. Just enough to watch them through the sliver of space between my lashes and the scratchy cotton.
It doesn't feel like a room anymore—it feels like a slow-burning dream I don't remember falling into. One where every man looks carved out of myth and menace, and I'm the pathetic mortal stuck between sleep and shame.
Eshan tilts his head toward me with that infuriating, gleaming smirk. "So," he drawls. "How's your roommate? Cold, huh?"
I blink. What the actual—
"Seriously?" My voice is low. Bitter. "He's your friend. You know him better."
Eshan chuckles under his breath. "Exactly. That's why I'm asking you."
Before I can shoot something venomous back, the mismatched-eye guy—Razmir, —grins and mutters, "She handled that well."
I roll my eyes, which only makes them laugh like I just joined the conversation voluntarily.
But I didn't.
God, I didn't.
I keep the blanket at chin level, but my fingers are curled in tight fists beneath. My body's screaming to crawl out of this room, but there's nowhere to go. Just me and four guys who look like they walked out of an underworld palace dressed like everyday sin.
And then there's him.
Rafaen.
The dimples.
Still hasn't said a word. Still staring.
He hasn't blinked once.
Like he knows me.
Like he's trying to remember something that slipped between lifetimes.
And the thing is?
It's not entirely one-sided.
I feel it too.
That weird tug in the stomach.
That uncomfortable lurch like I've seen him before. Not recently. Not even in this life, maybe. But something in my gut says he's not new. None of them feel new.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat, the kind you get right before you either start crying or throwing punches.
My breath hitches when I look directly at him. I raise one eyebrow slowly, the only thing I can manage without making it too obvious I'm unraveling.
And—goddamn him—he raises his right brow too. Perfectly. Like it's a dare.
Like we've done this dance before.
My stomach flips, violently.
Abort. Abort.
But then—then they start talking again. Just… casual. Like this is a brunch table and not a hospital room where a girl is trying to physically disappear into polyester linen.
They talk about some training shit. Something about defense academies and tournament leagues and Zayan getting banned from one because of "the explosion thing." I don't even know what the hell that means, but Eshan laughs like it's a classic joke and Razmir whistles low like of course that happened.
I just sit there.
Mute.
Stiff.
Unwantedly interested.
I catch myself listening. Not because I care, but because their voices are just—fuck. Why do all of them sound like radio hosts for different types of trouble?
I mutter it under my breath, too low for someone across the room to hear.
"Bastards."
But of course.
They hear it.
All three of them look at me at once like I just confessed to murder.
Eyebrows up. Mouths parted. A mix of impressed and amused.
Eshan actually claps, once. "Finally! She speaks with intent."
Razmir grins wide. "She does have bite."
Rafaen?
Still staring.
Still fucking mute.
I don't know what makes me do it, but I glance at Zayan again—
And just like that—
His eyes are on me.
For the first goddamn time today.
I freeze.
Like my soul gets sucker-punched by the intensity.
Zayan's gaze is not soft. Not kind. Not even remotely apologetic for ignoring me for so long.
It's sharp. Focused. Intrusive.
And hot.
I feel it.
Everywhere.
Like a slow, simmering crawl over skin I forgot how to feel good in.
My heart kicks like a deer on the highway.
Thudthudthud.
And then.
The beeping.
That fucking monitor beside my bed spikes just enough to betray me.
Beep. Beep. Beep-beep.
Everyone hears it.
Everyone looks.
Even Zayan turns his head slightly to glance at the monitor.
And I want to die.
Eshan's lips twitch like he's holding in a full-body laugh.
Razmir whistles. "Damn. That's new."
Rafaen tilts his head like he's reading an emotional scan of my soul.
And Zayan?
Zayan just watches the monitor for a second—then glances at me again.
Like he knows.
Like he fucking knows exactly what caused that spike.
I suck in a breath. "It's a machine. Machines glitch."
They don't believe it.
Hell, I don't believe it.
And just like that, I'm boiling under the blanket again.
Cornered.
Seen.
And dangerously aware that whatever this is—it's only just begun.
Razmir leans a bit forward, resting his forearms on his knees like he's about to ask something important. His mismatched eyes flicker with something unreadable—mischief, maybe. Or curiosity. Or worse.
"Hey," he says, voice lazy but edged, "what's your name?"
That catches me off guard.
Of all the things they've said—jokes, teasing, the casual chaos—they've never asked me that.
Not once.
Not even Zayan.
What the actual hell.
I blink. I feel stupid for being surprised, but there it is—lodged in my throat like a pebble I didn't realize I swallowed.
It's the first time anyone in this room has looked at me like I'm more than a patient number or a passing inconvenience. Like I'm real.
"My name?" I repeat, slow. Suspicious.
Razmir just raises an eyebrow. "Yeah. You got one, right? Or should we keep calling you 'Blanket Girl'?"
Dick.
Still… fair.
I sigh through my teeth. "Arshila."
It tastes strange saying it aloud here. Like a foreign word on familiar lips.
And then—
"Pretty," Rafaen says.
One word.
One word.
But it hits like a f***ing freight train.
His voice is velvet and gravel—smooth, deep, barely raised—but it carves through the air like a whisper meant for only me.
Like he's been holding onto that compliment since the second he saw me and only now decided to let it slip.
I jerk my eyes to him instinctively. He's already looking.
Of course he is.
Those dimples are gone. But the stare's still there—intense, unwavering. Not flirtatious. Not teasing.
Just… knowing.
Like he's looking through me.
And it's not fair. Because the moment our eyes lock, I forget what the hell I was mad about. I forget everything—my name, the hospital, the dull ache in my back, the fact that I haven't had a full meal in two days.
I forget to breathe.
There's something in his eyes. A quiet that shouldn't scare me, but does.
Like he's already seen how this ends. Like he's been waiting for me to catch up.
I tear my eyes away and instantly regret it.
"Arshila," Razmir says, slow, like he's letting the syllables sink in. He grins. "You got a name that matches your face. Soft but sharp."
I snap my gaze back to him and give him the coldest, most dead-eyed stare I can manage.
He smirks wider. Like he likes it.
Of course he does.
Because why the hell would I be allowed peace in this hellroom?
I grit my teeth. I don't know what kind of game they're playing, or if this is just how they exist—effortless, magnetic, deeply annoying—but I want out. Not because I can't handle them. I can. I just… can't handle what they make me feel.
Exposed.
Watched.
Weak in all the wrong places.
Rafaen hasn't stopped staring. Not for a second. I can feel it burning down the side of my face. Like a heat-laser of attention I didn't ask for.
I glance back at him.
He doesn't look away.
Doesn't blink.
Just meets me head-on with that unreadable, quiet storm behind his eyes.
What. The actual. F*ck.
I narrow my eyes. Testing him. Waiting. Challenging.
Back off. Look away. Do something normal. Breathe wrong.
But he doesn't.
He just keeps staring.
F*cker.
It's not even aggressive—it's something worse.
It's calm. Unshakeable. Like he could sit there staring until my skin peels off and he'd still say, "Pretty."
I feel my stomach twist and knot. My spine tightens under the hospital blanket. I suddenly feel too real. Too seen. Like someone turned the volume up on my pulse and every nerve in my body is responding.
I've stared down threats before. I've stared down shame. I've stared down pain.
But this? This isn't even staring.
It's recognizing.
And it makes my throat itch with a thousand questions I don't want to ask.
Why do I feel like I've met him before?
Why do I feel like all of them are pieces of a puzzle I didn't even know I was part of?
Why do I feel like running when no one's chasing me yet?
My mouth opens—no idea what I'm about to say. Probably something scathing, something defensive, something to break this strange spell of heat and stares and slow unraveling.
But before I can say a word—
Rafaen lifts his chin slightly.
Like he knows.
Like he can hear every thought clawing inside my skull.
And I realize—
Whatever the f*ck this is?
It's not over.
It hasn't even started yet.
"What do you guys do?" I ask, trying not to sound as awkward as I feel. "I mean—like, job? You look so damn young."
I shouldn't have asked. The words tumble out before I can shove them back in my throat. Blame the fact that all four of them look like they were carved out of hell and heaven at the same time. Like they have no business looking this good and sitting around in a hospital like it's a fucking photo shoot.
Eshan is the first to speak, his head tilting like he's sizing me up. That signature mole under his left eye twitches when he grins.
"I'm into numbers," he says smoothly, like it means something dirtier than it sounds.
"Numbers?" I repeat, arching a brow, still curled in my blanket cocoon.
"Yeah." He winks again. "You wouldn't understand. Most people don't."
I roll my eyes but stay quiet. Not feeding that ego.
The guy with the mismatched eyes—Razmir, leans forward a little from where he's seated beside Zayan. His stare is unreadable, that uneven gaze of his doing something weird to my nerves.
"I do geography," he says casually, like we're talking about tea and biscuits.
"Geography?" I squint. "Like maps?"
He smirks. "Like the shape of things."
I feel that sentence deep in my spine and hate that I do.
Then dimples speaks—Rafaen, the one who looks like trouble with a golden halo.
"I do nothing," he says, his voice light, cocky as hell. "It's a full-time gig."
I blink at him. "Wow. Dream career."
"Exactly," he says, resting his chin on his palm. "Stress-free, tax-free, and no one can fire me."
Zayan hasn't said a word. He's half-leaning back on his pillows, arms crossed, not looking at me—of course—but I catch the flick of his tongue against his cheek when all three of them glance at him at the same time.
And it's weird, because—
Wait.
Oh, right.
He told me two days ago—he does part-time jobs and just… exists.
Just like that.
I look at him, narrowing my eyes. "You said you're just surviving on part-times, right?"
He finally turns his head, slow, controlled. His gaze meets mine for a fraction of a second. A spark. Gone.
"Yeah," he says.
That's it. No explanation, no emotion. Just yeah.
But the way his friends all stare at him like they're holding back laughter? Like there's a joke I'm missing?
Eshan snorts into his hand. Razmir clears his throat. Rafaen hides a grin behind a cough.
And Zayan doesn't flinch. Doesn't even smile. Except—his tongue presses hard into the side of his cheek like he's seconds away from laughing. Like this is fun to him.
Asshole.
I curl tighter into my blanket, already regretting asking.
"Y'all weird," I mutter, pulling the edge of the hospital shirt's collar up to hide half my face.
"No," Eshan says smoothly, tilting his head, "we're just bored. You look like an interesting way to pass time."
That earns him a solid glare from me.
"Try a crossword puzzle," I snap. "Cheaper. And you won't get your face rearranged."
Rafaen whistles low. "Fiesty. Even wrapped up like a scared kitten."
"I'm not scared," I say through my teeth.
"Sure," Razmir says with a lazy smile. "But you're shivering."
I am. Fuck. I didn't even notice it until he pointed it out. The stupid AC. Or the fact that all four of them are staring at me like I'm some kind of… petri dish. Like they want to study me. Or maybe eat me alive.
Zayan's the only one who isn't. His eyes are somewhere else, fixed on the monitor on the wall, like this entire circus doesn't include him.
Which only makes him hotter.
Which only makes everything worse.
I want to ask more. I want to know who the hell they are. What kind of part-time jobs include having friends who dress like gods and talk like devils.
But I don't.
Because I'm already drowning.
Because the blanket isn't doing shit to protect me from their eyes.
And because the last time I got curious?
I woke up with half my memory gone and bite marks on my goddamn neck.
Before I can even part my lips to say something stupid like so… what exactly do you guys do, the door slams open like it's been kicked in by a SWAT team.
"ARSHILAAAH!"
That scream could raise the dead.
My head jerks toward the sound and in a full-blown panic, I whip the left curtain shut so fast it nearly rips off the rod. Zayan's bed disappears behind the thick fabric just as my three devils stomp into the room like they own the damn hospital.
"Bitch, so you're still alive, huh?" Shaiza grins like she caught me doing something dirty.
I blink at them, wide-eyed and frozen in place.
Ifrah drops her bag with a thud and groans dramatically, "God, you must be bored out of your fucking mind. How are you not climbing these walls?"
"She's not climbing the walls," Ruby says, flicking her braid behind her back like a whip, "because we are. These two don't have a single free damn day. Work, work, work."
"Oh shut the hell up," Ifrah rolls her eyes, "You think I'm just watching clouds drift by and sipping cold coffee at TIG?"
TIG. The cursed place.
I snort. "Didn't I tell you not to apply there?"
"You did," she says, throwing up both hands like she's on trial. "But I needed the money, and they pay me plenty."
Ruby hums. "So what else have they given you?"
"And the storage room," Ifrah says, lips curling into a smug, sinful smile.
I stare. "…What?"
She nods with no shame whatsoever. "Storage. Room."
My brain lags for a full five seconds.
"You did what in the storage room?"
She shrugs like it's not even worth the drama. "Made out with a guy from the finance team."
Shaiza makes a noise like she choked on holy water. "Fuck."
"Exactly," Ifrah grins wickedly. "With tongue."
I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle the bark of laughter building in my throat. My three so-called sane best friends are absolutely unhinged and I love them for it. I'm still trying to keep my shit together because the boys—the boys—are behind the curtain, definitely hearing every damn word.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
God.
My brain short-circuits just thinking about him hearing all that.
Please.
The curtain stays shut. No sound. No movement.
I inhale slowly and try to get a grip.
"Anyway," Ruby says, flopping onto the edge of my bed, "your doctor's hot, your nurses are cute, and your IV pole has more personality than half the guys I dated."
"I told you not to date that guy from the gym," Shaiza mutters.
"Oh my god, yes," Ifrah groans. "That one looked like a protein shake with legs."
"He was a walking neck vein," I say flatly.
They all laugh.
But I'm barely listening. My ears are too tuned in to the other side of that curtain. The heavy, male silence. The quiet tension of four deadly attractive men stuck in a room with no escape—listening to girls talk about tongue-in-mouth chaos, gym boyfriends, and storage room hookups like it's casual breakfast chatter.
Oh, they're enjoying this.
I know they are.
---
Shaiza crosses her arms and lets her lips curl like she's about to drop a warhead in the middle of my bed.
"Guess what, bitches."
Ruby narrows her eyes. "Oh god. What now?"
"We broke up," Shaiza says, smug and smugger. "Me. And Elvin."
Ifrah and Ruby gasp like they just heard the Queen of England got caught in a fistfight.
"No fucking way," Ifrah blurts, eyes huge.
"WHAT?!" Ruby practically screeches, grabbing the blanket like it betrayed her. "You and Elvin were—what? The picture of sexy boredom! What the hell happened?"
Shaiza's expression turns wicked. "He's… small."
There's a beat of silence.
Then Ruby slaps both hands over her mouth in horror.
Ifrah's already cackling. "*Wait—*what do you mean small?"
Shaiza winks. "Exactly what you think I mean."
"Oh my god," I mutter under my breath, slumping down into my pillow like I can melt into it and die.
"Arshila's face!" Ruby wheezes. "You look like you just heard someone confessed to murder."
"I feel like it," I hiss. "What the actual fuck, Shaiza?"
She shrugs with zero shame, her tone breezy like she's commenting on the weather. "Look. Size matters. I'm not doing cardio just to fake moan my way through baby strokes."
"God," I groan and slap a hand over my face.
Ifrah loses it. "I told you to test the goods before getting in too deep."
Shaiza dramatically throws herself back into the visitor's chair. "I tried, okay? But I got caught up in the idea of him being romantic and safe and emotionally available or whatever. Then the pants came off and I swear to god, I thought I was being pranked."
Ruby is laughing so hard she nearly falls off the edge of my bed. "Wait—was it really that bad?"
"Girl," Shaiza says, eyes wide, voice low like she's telling a ghost story. "I needed tweezers to find it."
I choke.
Literally choke.
Ifrah screams. "You're lying!"
"I wish I was," Shaiza groans, eyes toward the ceiling like she's mourning her sex life. "And the worst part? I told him about my… thing."
Ruby perks up. "Wait—the thing?"
Oh god. No.
Please.
Not the thing.
Shaiza nods, smug. "Yeah. The prince thing."
I bury my head under my hands. "Nope. Nope. We are not doing this."
"Girl," Ruby groans, "you told him about the Nazrani prince obsession? You told him?"
Shaiza grins. "He asked what kind of man turns me on. I said, 'tall, ruthless, untouchable, deadly.' He said, 'like me?' and I said, 'mm… more like the Nazrani heir.'"
Ifrah stares. "You're the worst."
"He cried after sex," Shaiza adds flatly.
"WHAT THE HELL," I shout.
Ruby falls back laughing so hard she actually knocks over the box of tissues. "I can't breathe. This is too much."
Shaiza crosses one leg over the other like she's proud of the chaos she's created. "I mean, what was I supposed to do? He said, 'you'll forget the prince after this' and then gave me five minutes of foreplay and two minutes of confusion. I left that man with more trauma than orgasm."
Ifrah wipes tears from her eyes. "I swear you're cursed."
"I'm not cursed," Shaiza says. "I'm just waiting for someone who can ruin me properly."
I cough into my palm. "You need therapy."
"No," Ruby says, "she needs a goddamn exorcism."
"You bitches wouldn't last a day in my shoes," Shaiza says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "You've all been dicked down at least once this month."
Ifrah raises a hand like she's being knighted. "Storage room, thank you."
Ruby nods solemnly. "Mine was on a rooftop. Under a neon sign. Risked a lawsuit."
They both look at me.
And I freeze like a deer in headlights.
Ifrah raises an eyebrow. "and we got a fucker with v card"
I nod. Proudly.
They all sigh in sync like I just confessed I've never seen color.
Ruby pats my leg. "We should consider her side too. Bitch is still healing."
Shaiza groans, throwing her head back. "Ugh, right. Sorry, babe. We're disgusting."
"Unhinged," Ifrah agrees. "Completely depraved."
"Gutter minds," Ruby says proudly.
I lift my hands weakly. "No, no, go on. Keep going. I'm just over here with the IV drip and lifelong emotional damage."
They all laugh and Ifrah snaps her fingers. "Okay but after you're discharged, we're meeting up at my café. Non-negotiable."
"Agreed," Ruby says, grabbing her phone like she's setting the damn calendar already.
"I'll bring wine," Shaiza offers.
"You'll bring chaos," I mutter.
Ifrah stretches with a yawn. "We came here to see her and all we've done is unload our sex lives like it's a group confession."
"Classic us," Ruby says.
Then Shaiza leans forward, eyes narrowing like she's about to start the real conversation. "Alright, real talk. How you doing now?"
I take a breath. "I can sit with help now."
Ruby smiles softly. "That's good, babe."
I nod again, slower. "Doctor said they'll start therapy sessions in two weeks. So… maybe walking soon."
They all stare at me.
Like full stop. Silent. Eyes wide. The kind of pause that usually only happens after someone drops a pregnancy bomb.
I blink at them. "What?"
Ruby opens her mouth first. "Don't pity me, bitches," I snap before she can speak.
Ruby just chuckles, eyes softening. "Okay. We won't."
Shaiza reaches out to mess with the corner of my blanket. "It's almost three months, Arsh. We just… miss you."
I swallow hard. "It's okay. Really. This is just… my fate. To be bed-ridden here, apparently."
Silence again.
Then—
"What about your hot roommate?" Shaiza smirks.
I blink. "What about him?"
Shaiza raises her brows slowly.
I shoot her a warning look.
Don't.
She mouths it like she's mimicking my own thoughts: Your. One. Year. Crush.
My eyes sharpen. I mouth back: Don't.
But she just grins.
"Well," I exhale slowly, "he's healing too. Like me. Can sit with help."
Ifrah looks around casually. "Is he… sleeping now?"
I nod quickly. "Yeah. We shouldn't disturb him."
I lie .
Ruby raises an eyebrow. "I kinda wanna see his face though…"
Shaiza turns sharply. "Same. I want to see that unreal face one more time."
"No, no—" I start, suddenly panicking, already grabbing at the edge of my blanket. "Wait—don't."
Too late.
They're already walking toward the left curtain.
And I know what's behind that curtain.
Not just Zayan.
All four of them.
My heart leaps into my throat.
"Shaiza, stop—" I call out.
But she's already there.
Hands gripping the fabric.
And with one dramatic yank—
The curtain flies open.
And then… silence.
Not the giggling. Not the teasing. Not even the fake flirty gasps they usually throw around.
Silence.
The kind that crashes into your bones and knocks the breath out of your chest.
Because standing—sitting, technically—on the other side of that curtain… are four men.
Not just any men.
Men who look like they belong in oil paintings and crime scenes. Like they kill for a living and flirt between bullets. Like they belong to another tier of reality.
Eshan.
Razmir.
Rafaen.
And Zayan.
Not one of them flinches. No one scrambles to hide. There's no sheepish grin or awkward wave. They just stare.
Deadpan.
Unmoving.
Expressionless.
Like statues made of danger and sin.
Shaiza's mouth hangs open.
Ruby's eyes go wide.
Ifrah lets out a strangled sound—somewhere between a gasp and a choked-off scream.
I swear Shaiza makes an actual sound this time, something that sounds like a sharp "Oh my fucking—" but it dies in her throat.
Because it hits them.
All at once.
The heat.
The danger.
The beauty of them.
And they don't know what to do with it.
Because it's too much.
It's the same thing I felt when I saw them two weeks ago for the first time. When I thought I was hallucinating. Dreaming. Drugged. Because men like this don't exist—not in this hospital, not in this city, not anywhere near me.
And now?
My idiot friends just ripped the curtain open like it's Christmas morning.
And every second ticks by in the kind of paralyzed silence that feels like being undressed by reality.
I stare at the four of them.
And they stare back.
Not a word.
Not a blink.
Just that eerie, dead stare.
And all I can think is—
Fuck.
We fucked up.
And then
she slams the curtain shut.
Hard.
Like she's trying to seal a crime scene. Like the fucking fabric is going to protect us from what we just witnessed. Her hands shake so bad the rings on her fingers jingle like alarm bells. The rail rattles. Her face—
Pale.
Like all the blood drained out in one heartbeat.
Her chest rises and falls in sharp, jagged bursts. She's not just rattled. She's shattered.
"What the hell was that?" I whisper.
Because the silence that follows feels like it's sitting on my chest, squeezing, bruising. Like I just watched someone see a ghost and forget how to breathe.
Shaiza stares at me.
Eyes blown wide.
Mouth still parted like she hasn't figured out how to close it yet.
"What?" I say again, my voice coming out higher, shriller. "What are you doing? What the fuck was that?!"
She doesn't answer.
She just looks at me like I've betrayed the entire goddamn species.
"Shaiza," I demand, swallowing a sick feeling rising in my throat. "What??"
I glance at Ruby. Then Ifrah.
Both of them look the same.
Wide eyes. Lips sealed. Like statues in the middle of processing an apocalypse. Ifrah is gripping her phone so tight I can hear the faint creak of the plastic case.
Ruby won't even blink.
"Okay," I say slowly, scanning each of them like I'm trying to solve a puzzle I didn't realize I was part of. "Did I miss something? Like… what the actual fuck is going on?"
Shaiza finally speaks.
Her voice is broken. Cracked. Like her throat got punched from the inside.
"Why…"
Just one word.
Then nothing.
Her mouth moves again but her breath cuts the rest off like she's drowning.
"Why," she tries again, her voice hoarse and rasping, "the fuck… is he here?"
The air turns electric.
Not in a fun way. In a storm-is-coming way.
I blink. "Who?"
Shaiza shakes her head hard, like I just asked her how to spell her name.
"Not just him," she says, and now her tone lowers into something cold. Shaking. "Why the fuck are they here?"
There it is again.
They.
My heart starts knocking against my ribs.
"aaah," I say. ". They're Zayan's friends."
I expect that to settle things.
But it's like I just set a bomb off instead.
Shaiza's head turns.
Slowly.
Painfully.
And when her eyes land on me again, I swear they look a shade darker.
One more time.
Voice whisper-soft.
Dead serious.
"Why. The fuck. Are they here?"
Her voice is shaking, but it carries weight. Dread. Like she knows something I don't.
"Because…" I hesitate, "…to see Zayan?"
The way the three of them stare at me now—
I feel stupid.
Like dumb-to-the-core stupid.
Like clown paint is forming on my face in real time.
Ruby leans forward, voice low. Measured.
"Do you know who they are?"
My stomach drops.
"I said," I bite out, "they're his fucking friends—"
"No." Shaiza cuts me off.
Her voice is sharp. Loud.
Too loud for this room.
"You don't know who they are."
I blink. "What the hell are you talking about—"
Then_
She slaps me.
She slaps me.
Hard.
The crack of it echoes. It fucking echoes. It isn't theatrical. It's not funny. It's not dramatic.
It's real.
Flesh meeting flesh.
Sting meeting skull.
My cheek burns. My ears ring.
And I don't move.
I don't blink.
I just sit there.
Staring at her.
Because what the fuck just happened?
My chest tightens, something raw climbing up my throat, something bitter and humiliated and scared.
She stares down at me, chest heaving, eyes wild. Her voice trembles, but her rage is louder.
"Are you… are you fucking dumb?! Huh?! I mean actually? You don't have eyes? Or a goddamn brain?!"
"Shaiza—"
"GET IT TOGETHER, BITCH!" she screams.
Ifrah flinches.
Ruby looks like she wants to disappear into the floor.
I just gape.
Because I don't know how to move. I don't know how to breathe. I don't even know who I am in this moment.
Shaiza is already ripping her phone out of her pocket. Her hands are shaking so badly it takes her two tries to unlock it. Her fingers fumble across the screen like she's trying to hold on to reality and it's slipping away too fast.
She doesn't speak.
She just shoves the phone in my face.
And I see it.
The headline.
"The Four Family Heirs—Called Sovereigns by the People."
I read it once.
Twice.
My vision tunnels.
Three photos.
Three names.
Three fucking truths.
ESHAN RAFAY ALZIRAH
RAZMIR KHALID IDRAKHAN
RAFAEN IZAAN NAZRANI
No name for the fourth.
No face.
Just "Tavarian Heir – Unnamed."
I don't even realize the phone's slipping from my fingers until it hits the blanket with a soft, traitorous thud.
I can't breathe.
I can't even think.
My brain is screaming no no no no no no no—
I whip my head toward Shaiza.
Then Ruby.
Then Ifrah.
And they're all watching me.
Like they already know.
And my eyes burn.
Because this?
This is fear.
Real. Ugly. Wet-in-your-throat fear.
Shaiza speaks again. Her voice barely a whisper now.
"What's his name?"
I don't want to answer.
But my mouth does it for me.
"Zayan."
Ruby leans in.
"If he's friends with them," she says slowly, "who is he?"
"No," I say quickly. "No. That's not it. He's just… just a friend."
"Of three heirs?" Ifrah asks, eyes narrowing. "Just a friend?"
Shaiza turns to me again, her voice sharp.
"Are you hearing yourself? He's with them. They don't hang out with nobodies. They don't visit strangers in hospitals. They don't sit in silence behind a curtain like goddamn demons waiting to strike—"
"Stop," I snap. "That's not what's happening—"
"Then explain," Ruby says coldly. "Who the fuck is he?"
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Because I don't know.
I thought I did. I thought I knew him.
But all I have is a name.
No past. No full name. No Instagram. No fucking clue.
"Wait," I say, reaching. "He—he can't be a Tavarian. That doesn't make sense."
Shaiza raises a brow. "Why not?"
"Because…" I swallow. "Because Shadin is his cousin."
That gets their attention.
They all freeze.
Shaiza grabs her phone again, her fingers flying faster than before, like she's possessed.
Then her face goes pale.
Pal-er.
Her breath catches.
And she turns the screen toward me.
A form.
Our college registration.
And right there—right fucking there—
SHADIN RAIZAL TAVARIAN
My throat closes.
I feel the floor tilting.
I knew Shadin was rich.
I knew he had connections.
But this?
This?
Two years.
Two fucking years I called him my best friend.
And never once—
Never once did he say the name Tavarian.
I curl in on myself, mind screaming, I talked shit—real shit—about the Tavarians to the Tavarian heir. Not once. Not twice. Constantly. Repeatedly. With my whole chest.
I want to throw up.
I think I might.
And that's when Shaiza whispers, like it just hit her too.
"I talked about the prince."
Her eyes widen, and she turns to me like I just stabbed her.
"I talked about the fucking Nazrani prince in front of the prince."
She looks like she's going to faint.
"You should've told me," she whispers.
"I didn't know!" I snap, panicked. "I didn't fucking know he's the fucking prince!"
Ifrah coughs, dry and shaky. "You guys do realize…"
She looks at us, lips twitching in terror.
"They can hear us."
The room sinks.
Dark. Silent. Heavy.
Behind that curtain—
They're still there.
All four of them.
Zayan.
And his monsters.
And I realize something.
Something horrible.
Zayan never denied it.
Never laughed when I mocked the Tavarians.
Never corrected me.
Never even twitched.
He just listened.
Quiet. Sharp. Smirking.
Like he was watching a mouse dig its own grave.
He knew.
He fucking knew.
And he let me talk.
Let me scoff.
Let me vent.
Let me curse his name and his family and everything he stands for—
While lying next to him.
While he smiled.
While he listened.
While he loved it.
I bury my face in my hands.
And whisper to myself.
"Fuck."
Because I've spent the last year crushing on the most dangerous man alive.
I sit up slowly, one hand gripping the scratchy bedsheet, the other pressed to my temple. There's a low hum in my ears, like my body's trying to warn me, but too exhausted to scream.
"I think I'm fucked up," I mutter under my breath, staring blankly at the curtain that separates my bed from the rest of the room.
It hits me like a delayed slap. How much I've badmouthed Tavarian—to him. Called him every flavor of asshole, spawn of capitalism, arrogant prick. To his face. Mocked his fucking bloodline. Mocked it.
God.
I slump back into the pillows, breath shallow. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
Ruby's fingers slide around mine. "You do realize you're in Tavarian Medica, right?"
My heart stumbles, trips. "What?"
Ifrah turns to me like I've just confessed to burning a national monument. "Don't tell me you didn't know that."
I blink at her, too stunned to even form a full thought.
I shake my head—no.
Just no.
Without a word, I grab the hem of the hospital shirt and start yanking it up.
"What are you doing?" Shaiza half-screams, lunging forward.
"Checking for cuts," I say, panic rising with every syllable. "Did they take my fucking kidney?! I swear to God if there's a stitch, if they've opened me—"
Ruby smacks my hands down and fixes the shirt. "There's no stitch, idiot."
Shaiza stares at me like I've grown two heads. "You've been in here for three fucking months and you didn't know you were in a Tavarian hospital?!"
"I thought it was some ordinary rich people hospital!" I defend myself, though it sounds pathetic even to me.
"Look around." Ifrah gestures wildly. "You think this room is normal? It's got a damn chandelier hanging like it's auditioning for a palace, and it costs more than my entire fucking car."
I look up—really look. The crystals catch the light and shatter it across the ceiling like stars trying to escape. The walls are an expensive warm beige, the edges trimmed in gold leaf. Not fake gold. Real. Solid. Weighty.
And suddenly I can't breathe.
"And your hospital bill?" Shaiza says, her voice quieter now, dead serious. "Paid. By Tavarian Medica."
I stare at them like they're speaking another language.
Ruby nods slowly, like she's watching someone lose their mind in real time. "Paid. Covered. You've been here on their dime."
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Not even a breath. The disbelief is lodged in my throat like gravel.
"They only allow visitors once a week," Ifrah adds. "That's why your parents weren't here every day. They were told not to worry. Told everything was being handled."
My hands start to shake. I don't even realize it until Ruby reaches out again, curling her fingers around mine to steady me. My vision blurs a little, maybe from the fear, maybe from whatever IV's still dripping into my arm.
Then the door clicks.
We all flinch, heads snapping toward the sound.
A man in black steps in—black suit, black shirt, black tie, . Not a doctor. Not a nurse. Just authority.
"Your time is up," he says flatly. "You can go now."
Ruby's face changes. Her lips press into a hard line. She looks at me like she's seeing me for the last time.
"You're not healing here," she says. "You're in their control."
Shaiza leans in, eyes wide, voice a broken whisper. "You're dead meat. We're so sorry."
The three of them file out, the door shutting behind them with the finality of a fucking guillotine.
Silence returns like fog—heavy and slow.
And now I'm alone. Alone in a room dressed like royalty, but it feels like a cage made of silk and gold. Like I'm a doll in a glass case.
Except I'm not alone.
On the other side of the curtain. Four of them. fucking calm.
I can't see them. But they're right there.
I grip the blanket, knuckles turning white. I try to move, but my legs are jelly, the machines attached to me are hissing like snakes.
Then Zayan's voice cuts through the curtain. Smooth. Lazy. Cruel.
"Razmir. How much does a young organ cost?"
That's it.
That's all he says.
No laugh. No tone.
Just curiosity. Cold. Detached.
Razmir doesn't even pause. "Millions."
My heart spikes so violently the machine beside me screeches. The monitor beeps like a siren, screaming the panic I can't verbalize. The air leaves my lungs in a choking stutter.
My entire body freezes.
Because I'm young. I'm healthy. I've been unconscious for months. And they've paid for everything. Every scan. Every drop of medicine. Every private doctor.
My breath shortens into shallow, sharp gasps.
They don't need a thank you. They need a return.
I press a hand to my stomach. No stitches. Yet.
I'm the fucking payment, aren't I?
The sweat trickles down my back. My mouth goes dry. My ears ring.
They're still behind the curtain, My heart's beating so loud.
I can't scream.
Even if I tried, I know it won't matter. I know this place is soundproof. Nothing in this hospital is an accident.
And I know—I know—I am not getting out of this room.
Not untouched.
Not alive.
I stare at the curtain, waiting for it to move. For one of them to pull it aside and smile that goddamn smile.
Zayan's voice. Razmir's number. That beep on the monitor.
That's all it took.
This is it.
This is where I die.
__________________________
AUTHOR NOTE
YES bitches—
She's fucked up.
Maybe her organs too. Maybe her BRAIN is still trying to reboot. Maybe her soul straight up LEFT THE CHAT.
Because guess what?
She's been talking shit about the Tavarians like it's her day job, throwing curses like confetti—and turns out?
SHE. WAS. IN. THEIR. FUCKING. MEDICA.
Girl wasn't just throwing stones, she was doing backflips in a glass house 💀
And now? Oh now we've got silence.
Deadly, bone-chilling, jaw-clenching silence.
From Zayan. From the boys. From the whole damn room.
Until BOOM—curtain opens.
And SLAP.
From a princess with a tongue sharper than knives.
This chapter is unhinged, messy, brutal—and so goddamn satisfying.
She wanted answers?
She got reality. And it SUCKS.
So yeah, cry for her.
Or don't.
She deserves every stare, every second of that suffocating silence, every inch of that burn.
But also...
Let's not lie.
We'd all still risk it for Zayan with his chain, his voice, his everything.
Vote, comment, share this shit with your most feral friend who loves drama, power, and emotionally unavailable hot men who cook.
Next chapter?
Pain.
Sexy, silent, Tavarian-grade pain.